Out and about.

I'm the sort that needs a lot of intellectual stimulation, or my brain goes crazy with the self-criticism. I finally remembered that in the midst of a crisis of confidence last night. So today, I took the light rail into Portland, along with my journal and camera, and took a day to remember the outside world.

My feet and the poem to former mayor Bud Clark.

Pasta, tea, and writing at the Davis St. Tavern.

Some of the best hot chocolate around! With cardamom whipped cream, even.

Wandering around the Chinese Garden. The sun came out occasionally, too!

These frozen yellow flowers smelled like love -sweet and unending.

Outside the Tao of Tea

I adore this little waterfall.

Next to the waterfall, there's this little mysterious cove. I imagine tiny pirates in there.

Stepping stones.

Fu dogs are joy.

Stopped by Oregon Leather to be amazed at the colors and creativity of leather working.

For my Charming Man

Feeling the love today. :)

Sun and Moon
by Gina Zeitlin

It's all about sex,
we both know that.

But     what I wonder is
why
after every molecule of desire
in my body has been satisfied
after
the sudden moistening, the deep
fierce aching and raising heat
after
the throbbing glory of release and the cries
of need and pleasure have dissolved
into the air,

Something like my soul slips from me
and goes to you,
without choice or question,
and wraps itself around you
all night, like the breath
of the moon.

And why
I carry the thought of you
as constant as any sun
in my heart.

The best intentions

A dear friend's manuscript was rejected this past week. I was going to write something profound about rejection for her -  basically rehashing the brilliant advice Carolyn See gives the world in Making a Literary Life (which is one of the absolute necessities for an author). It's a genius book and the chapter on rejection is one of the kindest, most life affirming pieces of advice I've heard in my life (and I've heard more advice than I can possibly count).


But I simply wasn't up for picking the best parts and I certainly was not going to copy down the entire fourteen pages of the chapter. So I will share the final paragraph:

It's not personal. It's not death. It's just a death experience. And the way to defuse rejection is to turn it into a process: cosmic badminton. So that you can wake up in the night, think about it, and actually smile.

And now, something else to keep you smiling:

Sacher Torte with whipped cream and coffee, at the Sacher Hotel, in Vienna.

Because decadent chocolate torte and Viennese coffee with more whipped cream make the world a better place.

Getting Silly.

In my short story challenge, another friend dared me to challenge the stereotypes of absolute dominance and submission.

The deepest submission

“Tonight, our pet, is the final test. If you pass this one, you will be our fully collared live-in slave, both owned and cherished.”

Her words sent a shiver down my spine and through my cock, making the bell on the end of its cage chime.  I kept my lips firmly pressed to the shining floor by her foot. What would my Master and Mistress do to me? They had tested me over and over since I approached them to be their slave.

Their stern hands and whispered orders gave delights, and revealed my secrets. They peeled me open like an artichoke, demanding I give up my tender heart.

“Wait for us in your basket,” his deep rumbling voice ordered. I kissed his feet, careful not to brush my stubble against his skin, and scooted to my dog den -a deep wicker basket lined with cushions. To be kept like a dog, waiting on their whim, was all I wanted. I yearned to found worthy of their permanent collar.

My Master and Mistress were flawless physical specimens of dominant power. She towered at six feet, with radiant skin and glossy black hair. He was even taller, and surely heaven would forgive me if I thought of a Tom of Finland drawing whenever I saw his sculpted body and strong features.

The heavy tread of his boots heralded his arrival.

“Come here.”

I crawled out of my nest and touched my lips to the boots I had learned to polish to his exacting standards.

“Look at me.”

Smiling in delight, I let my gaze range up his perfect body encased in black leather. His strong calves, muscular thighs lead to an enticing bulge in his codpiece. I always knew I had done well when he rewarded me by letting me look at his rippling belly and chest. I finally reached his face, and gasped.

A bright red clown nose sat in the middle of his Greek god features.


Astonished, I flicked my eyes to my Mistress. Her face carried no such outrageous adornment. Her corset and opera gloves hugged her body as closely as I yearned to touch her. A six foot long singletail slithered behind her.

But instead of her usual sky high heels, pink fuzzy bunny slippers waggled their ears at me as she stepped forward.

“Well?” Her imperious voice snapped me out of my stare.

I looked at the object in her hand.

“Do you accept our token?” he asked.

I stared between them. A grin broke out on my face. I grabbed the deely bobbers from her hand and shoved it on my head. The bright green glittery shamrocks wobbled back and forth as I sat up.

“I’m yours,” I declared.

Ice Hard.

A long time ago, I challenged my good friends to stretch my erotic imagination. Give me a scenario, a kernal of an idea, and I'd come up with a short story from it. One person said I should write a sexy scene in an ice fishing hut.

It's a Minnesota thing. Just roll with it.

***

Ice hard

Minnesota in winter was a hard place.

But not nearly hard enough, Mrs. Bjorn Johnson concluded. That damn Bjorn, fishing addict he was, had been up in that there damn ice fishing hut for the entire weekend, tending to the entirely wrong set of holes.

How was a woman supposed to get any lovin’ this way? She’d even wore her sexiest nightie -the long insulated green one without any feet – to bed last night, but her beloved Big B merely gave her a wet smacking kiss on the cheek and rolled over.

Discouraged, she’d put her footie pajamas back on and spent the night coming up with her cunning plan. If Mohammad couldn’t come to the mountain….

Already dressed in her warmest garments, Julika, sturdy, independent woman she was, strode across the three foot thick ice and throw the blowing snow to Bjorn’s sizable red ice-fishing hut.

Not even knocking, she flung open the door. “Hello, darling,” she sing songed, walking into the heated room.

“Holeee cannooooli, Julika, what are you doing here?” Bjorn’s arousing Minnesotan drawl tingled her neglected places as he leapt to his feet, nearly upsetting the chair he’d been perched on watching the black waters under the ice. His shirt sleeves had been rolled up, revealing strong forearms. Julika pressed her thighs together at the sight.

“Why, can’t a devoted wife see to her husband’s comfort?” she purred, peeling off her thermal mittens, her scarf, ear muffs, and stocking cap with the panache and confident cocked hip of a showgirl.

Bjorn gulped.

She unzipped her down coat, tooth by agonizing tooth, holding Bjorn’s gaze the entire time. He swallowed as she tossed it onto his small table, scattering fishing magazines and a lone copy of Maxim. She’d pin his ears back good about that later. Right now, this real life woman’s real life needs demanded attention. She was on a mission.

Her insulated vest went next. She peeled and tugged and unzipped and unbuttoned until she stood before him in her boots and clinging silk thermal long johns.

“Bjorn, I just had to know how your…pole…was doing.” Julika ran her hands up and down her torso and breasts just like she’d seen in the stripper aerobics tape Annika had snuck to her under the table at the last Church Ladies’ Social.

Her man’s blue eyes bugged out at her hard nipples and unbound hair. A gratifying lump appeared in his flannel lined jeans.

Leaning against the table, she spread her legs, letting him get a good look at her puffy hoo-ha pressed against her longies. Her fingers delved past the waist band of the drawers and stroked aching flesh.

“Now, you gonna provide for your woman, Bjorn Johnson, or am I going to have to become a DIY gal?”

Catching up on 'The Classics'

I'm always watching movies and reading books, trying to learn more about writing, structure, and what makes a story dazzling. I've been on a musical kick, seeing how the writers tied the music to the story, used it to advance the plot, or used it to reveal a character's innermost self.

In Silk Stockings, Cyd Charisse's solo dance with her lingerie clearly tells the viewer that here is a woman who is finally embracing her yearning for pleasure. It's one of the most tender and touching metaphors for female sexuality and orgasm that I've seen.

So from this movie, I learned how to engage a reader in more than just the motion of the ocean, but also the emotions of the motion, so to speak.


On the downside, I learned just how necessary character development is. In Pal Joey, Joey starts the movie with being run out of town by the police. Because he'd been pouring drinks for an underage girl in his hotel room. For some reason, this was considered funny back in 1957.

I was yucked out immediately. And I stayed yucked out, because Joey remained a complete dog. Kim Novak played a helpless innocent (another Waif on our hands!), and Rita Hayworth played a woman who actually owned her sexuality. Which means, of course, that she got dumped. Here's the trailer to get you started.

What I learned?
1. I need to pay attention to the mores of your time, and what is considered funny.
2. Sometimes, I just want to watch the movie for the musical numbers, and not the plot. Or the characters.
3. If I'm going to write a jerk or someone in need of redemption, I need to show some kind of reason why anyone would cheer for this louse.

In order to get this foul taste out of my mouth, I had to watch some Mae West movies.  My Little Chickadee to the rescue.